


Encounters

by muse_oleum



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: (JQ would probably deeply approve of her characters behaving wantonly tbh SO), Bridgerton, Canon Compliant, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, basically exorcising my sophie/benedict smut muse y'all are welcome, benedict bridgerton - Freeform, it's shameful that there's not more on them tbh, sophie beckett - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse_oleum/pseuds/muse_oleum
Summary: Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton, before, during and after their wedding, exploring the joys of what they thought they could never have together (yes, that very much includes sex. we talking about Benedict, after all.)
Relationships: Sophie Beckett/Benedict Bridgerton
Comments: 7
Kudos: 84





	1. Draw me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: every single character belongs to Julia Quinn, I'm just using them as much needed catharsis vectors, that's all. Also, I'm just a simp for Benedict.

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on two things: his artistic sense and his careful, safely buttoned-up, sense of judgement. Unlike his brother Anthony, he never was one to pursue pleasure wherever it took him – which did not mean he had never dallied with one miss or another. Unlike Colin, he didn’t fall in love with every single one of them. He sought pleasure on his terms, choosing his ladies carefully, employing that sensitive artistry of his to detect kindred spirits.

  
Yes, Benedict Bridgerton had always been less ravenous than his older brother, until Anthony met Katharine Sheffield. He had then faced two choices: carry on the tradition and become the same dissolute rake his brother had been or, quite simply, fall in love. And, perhaps to his surprise, he had managed to do both _simultaneously_.

  
He’d met his silver dame at his mother’s masquerade, fell in love, lost her, and drowned his sorrows at White’s with the opera singers. Then he had met Sophie, his sweet, lonely, innocent Sophie, and his hunger had turned on its heel, branding her the only woman he would ever lust after.

  
Fortunately for him, she had turned out to be his silver lady, the very one who had touched his sensitive heart like no other before her. His heart had broken from the moment he understood the irreversible truth: he could not marry her. He had found her, made his dreams as tangible as he could, but he could not _have_ her. There really was a sense of perverted irony in this whole damned situation.

  
That was until his mother decided to take the reins, using her considerable influence and popularity amongst the gossiping mothers of the ton to blackmail Lady Penwood. Violet Bridgerton, Dowager Countess, was not a woman to be gainsaid. Sophie had emerged, if not wholly respectable, then at least, no longer an unacknowledged Earl’s by-blow. She had prospects; prospects which Benedict had every intention of snatching.

  
Their wedding had been sudden, as one might expect, and, if some in his family knew the truth about Sophie’s birth, they had not piped a word – even Anthony, no doubt thoroughly briefed by his wife, had kept remarkably quiet. Colin, thank the good Lord above, had refrained from any impertinent remark, Eloise had not yet figured out the truth (she would, in time) and his mother had decided it was best not to wiggle the knife in the wound.

  
Sophie’s past was erased, but not easily forgotten: the ladies of the ton did not wholeheartedly believe their story but, since Lady Penwood had kept her mouth shut, there really was nobody to press for the truth. Sophie was perhaps not invited to as many balls as her sisters-in-law, nor was she ever deferred to with quite the same respect the other Bridgerton wives usually commanded, but that did not bother her. Her life, all things considered, had turned out for the best.

  
Her husband was an artist, so it came as no surprise the first time he asked her to pose for him. Strangely, she had expected him to ask her to pose _en déshabillé_ , but he had simply wanted to sketch her portrait. A part of her wondered if he did not want to frighten her. They had loved each other, twice before their marriage vows, and many times since then, but she supposed there was a great difference between that and disrobing oneself for an artist’s brush. And yet… yet there was something infinitely appealing about it. Still, he had never asked.

  
Now, nearly ten years into their marriage and four children later – three boys and a little girl, named Violet after her grand-mother – Sophie thought it about time to address the lack of passion in her life. The children and running their small, newly-acquired estate in Wiltshire, was a demanding job. She had always felt like she had to put in twice as much effort, precisely because she had not been raised for this sort of life. Benedict rarely demanded anything, leaving the running of the household to her while he busied himself with instructing his young children in the many creative ways one could annoy one’s mother, on top of his other duties. In fact, she had not seen him pick up a brush in ages.

  
Seized by a sudden urge, she decided to rectify that. The children were out with their governess, leaving the house largely empty. _A wife could not ask for better conditions for a lovely afternoon tryst_ , Sophie thought, an almost feline grin playing on her lips. She made her way to her husband’s study, where he would surely be attending matters of business. Knocking, she waited for his cue to come in.

  
His eyes softened as soon as he saw her, the quill he had been dipping in ink promptly set aside when she made her way to kiss him lightly. Letters littered the desk, mostly from his brothers or his trade partners. He himself was what one called a “silent partner,” quietly investing and supporting several businesses without his good name being tarnished by association with trade. Sophie had been quite surprised to learn that her artistry-minded husband also had a knack for finances and business.

  
“Good afternoon, my love,” she greeted, tilting his head back to kiss him once more. “Business inquiries?” she asked, nodding towards his correspondence.

  
“Hm-hm,” his voice was husky as he gently nuzzled his nose against hers.

  
 _Good_ , Sophie thought; she had him in the right frame of mind. Planting one more kiss on his puckered lips, she withdrew to the cabinet in which he stored his sketching supplies. He had always let her borrow things, but she did not have the same talent for drawing that he possessed. Picking up his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal, she felt his curious gaze on her.

  
“Looking for something?” he asked, picking up his quill again.

  
He attempted to focus on the letter at hand when he felt her hand upon his, her fingers gently caressing his knuckles. The small gesture sent shivers up his arm.

  
“Found it.”

  
Looking up, he saw that she was holding his sketchbook, placing it very deliberately in front of him. He shot her a questioning glance, wondering what she was about. It usually took him a moment to catch up to her schemes, a fact he – begrudgingly – admitted, made her quite the bossy one in their marriage.

  
Sophie knew she had to rouse his passion first, only a little, for her plan to work. The idea was not to tease him mercilessly until he could take their love-making to the safety of their bed. No, she wanted to arouse him so fiercely that he could not wait to submit to the torture of drawing her, nude before him, before touching her.

  
She threw him a sultry look, leaning back against the desk. His eyes darkened imperceptibly. Nodding towards his sketchbook, he dutifully picked it up, flipping through the blank pages at the end. She stopped him, choosing a page at the very end. From there, she traced her fingers on the inside of his wrist, nudging the fabric of his jacket aside to caress the soft skin underneath. She felt him shiver. Slowly, she bent forward, affording him quite the view of her generous cleavage and saw him swallow convulsively. Touching her lips to his ear, she let out a breath, feeling as much as she saw the muscles of his jaw clenching.

  
“Draw me.”

  
Benedict could hardly believe his ears. Sophie pushed forward, sliding one leg between his own under the desk, her stockinged leg brushing against his thigh, creating the blissful friction that never failed to set him on edge. Closing his eyes as he felt her lips press against his, Benedict felt the familiar tug of arousal tighten like a coil in his groin. It baffled him that, after ten years of marriage, she still had that effect on him.

  
“Draw me,” she whispered against his lips, her tongue darting out to caress his lower lip.

Obediently, he picked up his sketchbook. She withdrew, but not before applying pressure with her leg against his thigh, brushing past the front of his breeches. The air grew suddenly warmer.

  
Sophie, her gaze never leaving his, sat primly on the chaise in front of his desk. Following her gaze, he made his way to the opposite sofa, sketchbook in hand. He knew, from the moment that she had uttered these words, he would be hers to direct. She had taken control. Almost unconsciously, he started to draw the outline of her body. He knew it so well he could do it without even looking at her.

  
“Benedict.”

  
Her voice was silky and, powerless to refuse her, he gazed up at her. _God, how he loved it when she said his name_. Holding his gaze, she very deliberately let the sleeve of her gown fall down, revealing one creamy shoulder. Still looking at him, she shrugged the other one off. He had to smile. Of their own accord, his hands traced the curve of her neck, emphasizing the delicate slope of her shoulders, down towards her bosom. His gaze grew heated, his pencil stopped. Sophie could now see his pupils swell black with desire. Reaching behind her, she unbuttoned her dress, slowly sliding the fabric down her arms, revealing her chemise and corset. He was about to ask her to take it all off but one look from her silenced him.

 _She_ was in control.

  
“You’re not sketching.”

  
Her tone was accusatory yet tender. Glancing back down to his work, he heard the knot at the base of her corset slip loose. His groin gave a painful tug, almost noticeable under the protection of his sketchbook. He resisted the urge to take himself in hand; he knew he could not last long enough for her to fully undress. Willing his hands to take up another instrument instead, he kept working on her neck and shoulders, adding details to her face.

  
Her corset fell to the floor. His eyes, of their own volition, crept up her torso, towards her own. He could see it, she allowed him one request, no doubt already aware of what he was going to ask. The heat of her gaze inflamed him further, the fabric of his breeches doing nothing to hide his reaction to her.

  
She was daring him to touch her. She was not going to let the damned thing slip herself. Breathing deeply, he stood up, feeling her gaze scan him, smirking when she saw the effect she had on him, straining against his breeches. Her own arousal flared when she felt his lips on her throat, a whimper escaping hers. He hummed low in his throat, trailing insistent kisses down to her collarbone. She resisted the urge to bury her hands in his hair. If she touched him, the game would be over. And she was having way too much fun torturing him.

  
Benedict gave a low moan when he felt the soft skin of her breasts under his lips. How he longed to pleasure her, to take her fully in his mouth, to taste her skin. Unable to resist, one of his hand reached down to appease his engorged length. A groan escaped him, the pressure mounting as he palmed himself through his breeches. She parted her legs, allowing him access if he so desired. He heard her whimper as his tongue danced around her nipple, teasing her.

  
She took his hand away, leaving his groin pulsing harder than before. He let out a shaking plea, certain that he was going to soil his pants right there. She guided his hands back to his sketchbook, pushing him away from her breast. Benedict felt the first signs of his paroxysm approaching as he took in the full view of her torso, moist from his ministrations. He couldn’t possibly get back up, the movement would surely finish him.

  
Thankfully, Sophie simply slid her chemise completely down her mid-section, holding his gaze as she allowed him to take it off of her completely. Attempting one last valiant effort, his fingers shaking from the pressure to let go, Benedict sketched the curve of her belly, paying special attention to her breasts, soft and heavy after four children. His manhood twitched of his own accord as he was tracing the outline of one nipple. He bit his lip, grinding down against nothing, desperate for something to relieve the ache.

  
Sophie knew exactly what he needed to send him over the edge. Slowly, she slid down, kneeling on the floor in front of him. She unfastened his breeches, reaching inside to caress his manhood. Her husband gave a loud moan, his hips jerking forward against her palm. His hand came down to guide hers up and down his length. He used the other to brace himself against the chaise behind her.

  
“Faster… _God_ , please… my love, _faster_ ,” he was a perfect mess, undone under her hand as he came, jolting forward to crush her lips against his own, muffling his shout of pleasure. He whimpered and shook, unable to come back down from this high as she kept teasing him, running her thumb over the tip of his length. “Good God, Sophie, _please_ …” she had rarely seen him so aroused, so completely aroused that the evidence of his desire for her kept spilling, throwing him back into the throes of climax.

  
Satisfied, she let go of him, allowing him time to recuperate. He rested his head on her shoulder, murmuring praises, still whimpering softly from the depth of his pleasure. Deciding that two was never better than three, she sat back up on her chaise, reaching for the discarded sketchbook. Still reeling, he didn’t have the strength to refuse her. Bending to whisper in his ear, sure that she could ignite his passion one more time, she let her hand run the length of his chest, urging him to continue.

  
Benedict wasn’t so sure that he had it in him to climax one more time and, if the bright and slightly fuzzy light still shining behind his eyelids was any indication, his body was still experiencing the after-effects of the monumental pleasure she’d just given him. A little voice inside his head told him that he had yet to return the favor.

  
She didn’t utter a word, simply smiling at him encouragingly as she slid her stockings down her legs, the sensual movement causing her breasts to sway ever so slightly. He gulped. Sure enough, he felt his loins respond enthusiastically, not in the least as exhausted as he felt. Sketching her legs would have been easy enough if he did not think about what treasure he could avail himself of further north. Her scent, her terribly arousing scent, was steadily increasing his desire for her.

  
Sophie herself, quite flustered by just how easily she had handed him his bliss, felt her own arousal skyrocket as she saw his eyes focus on the apex of her thighs. She thought of all the times he had kissed and touched her there, nudging against her as his fingers worked expertly inside her. Pressing her legs together, she moaned, throwing her head back as she felt his mouth on her, sucking and kissing and nipping at her bud. His fingers crept up her navel, settling on her breast, massaging her, grazing her nipple with his signet ring. Benedict groaned, feeling his erection strain towards her, urging him to join with her. He was not going to last as long this time.

  
Hearing her moan loudly, much louder than he had let himself, he could no longer hold out. Pulling her down on top of him, she instinctively grinded up and down against him, peppering his neck with kisses. Feeling her walls clutch him, Benedict gave a helpless moan, his pace quickening. Hoping to push her over the edge, he cupped her breast, showering it with attention until he felt her shake and pulse around him. Her climax claimed her, whimpering in his ear, and he finally let go, his answering moan muffled in her neck.

  
Breathless, they stilled, self-consciously listening for any sounds in the hallway. There was no way nobody had heard them but Sophie couldn’t quite bring herself to care. This was exactly what she had needed, not quite since Violet’s birth but almost. She secretly hoped this encounter would give them another little one before the year was out.

  
Preferably another girl, one she could call Posy, in honor of the other lady who had been the means of finally bringing their happiness about.

* * *

_Ahem. That's it. See you in the next one!_


	2. In the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: every single character belongs to Julia Quinn, I'm just using them as much needed catharsis vectors, that's all. Also, I'm just a simp for Benedict.

* * *

Sophie stretched out, moaning contentedly as she felt the sunshine on her toes. Cracking one eye open, her gaze immediately fell on her dressing-gown, discarded on the floor amongst a pile of gentleman’s clothing.

_Gentleman’s clo…_

She sat up abruptly, her heart pounding. The room was familiar, but much grander than what she was used to. She heard a groan, a distinctively _male_ groan, coming from the other side of the bed. Turning slowly, her gaze fell on Benedict, fast asleep with his arm thrown around her waist. His dark hair was a complete mess but his tiny lopsided smile of contentment lent him a look uniquely feline. All he was missing were the whiskers to look like the cat that got in the cream.

_What was she doing in Benedict’s bed?_ She glanced down at herself, blushing a bright crimson red. _Naked?_

Suddenly, she remembered.

He was her husband. They were married. All was permitted. There was no risk of scandal or any more heartache. They were _married_.

Sophie chuckled helplessly, the reality of her situation sinking in. She was, after two years, Mrs. Bridgerton. _Mrs. Bridgerton_. She had married the man she loved, who loved her in return, despite the obstacles standing in their way. She no longer had to fear for her future because _he_ was her future. She was no longer alone because _he_ was hers.

Overcome, Sophie leaned down to kiss his brow, tenderly caressing his cheek. The light stubble down his throat tickled her skin. He smelled of warmth and fresh sheets. Trailing her gaze downwards, she colored slightly. He, of course, was wearing nothing, just like her. The smooth skin of his chest caught the sun’s rays and she couldn’t resist touching him. He mumbled something in his sleep, instinctively pulling her closer.

And that was the first thing Sophie Bridgerton learned about her new husband: he was a _very_ sound sleeper. Her tender caresses did not wake him, if anything, he seemed to cling to sleep with an almost desperate will. She wondered why. Was it because he dreamt of her? Was he also disorientated, albeit subconsciously? If she had taken a few minutes to remember that they were, in fact, legally married, then surely if must be the same for him.

Benedict was the most sensitive soul she’d ever met.

He had his flaws, of course. He could be stubborn, imperious and even unfair at times. He could also get terribly worked up about things, and God help the recipient of his anger. But she had never seen him act on it, he had always bottled it up quickly, afraid that it would consume him.

Although that disgusting prison warden had found out for himself just how unhealthy it was to contradict an angry Benedict. She wondered if all his brothers were the same and if it came from their father. Lady Violet had seemed such a genteel, kind soul that Sophie had trouble imagining her angry. Even as she sparred with Araminta, she had kept her cool. She, on the other hand, had landed a rather majestic punch in the odious woman’s face.

She suspected Benedict had been very proud.

❦

Benedict stirred, roused by the light as it crept higher onto the bed. Immediately, he closed his eyes. He had been dreaming about _her_. Again. His Sophie. He felt the burning of tears behind his eyelids as he pressed them tightly shut, fighting against the onslaught of emotions he had no business feeling.

_Benedict…_

Good God, he was delusional. He could hear her voice, he could practically _see_ her smiling gently down at him. He could almost feel her as she caressed his lips lovingly, dusting feather-light kisses on his neck.

The sudden darkness as he felt her lips touch his eyelids forced him to open his eyes.

“I was wondering when you’d wake, my love.”

The sob that nearly broke through his chest surprised him.

Of course, she was here! She was _his_. He pulled her to him with a crushing force, holding her so close he could feel her heart beating in her chest. She was so warm, she must have been basking in the sunlight. Overcome by emotion, he held onto her, nuzzling in her hair, his hands caressing her back as he fought the tears. She, perhaps understanding more than she let on, caressed his sides, letting her hands run tender patterns on his ribcage. She had buried her face against his neck, murmuring words he couldn’t understand.

In this moment, he realized how extraordinarily lucky he was. He had fallen in love, hard and deep, with the very woman who had touched his heart two years ago, under the guise of a demi-mask. That woman had been secretive, beguiling and ethereal. His Sophie was all these things, true to herself, but also real, soft and beautiful. She was _strong_ , he could feel it in the way she embraced him. Her hands wound themselves around his biceps as she kissed him, her lips plucking at his until he let her in. He let his hands explore where his eyes could not, pressing her against him until she felt the evidence of his desire for her.

She slid her knees on either side of him, straddling him, her torso flush against his. Unable to keep quiet, Benedict moaned against her mouth, jerking his hips upwards in a desperate attempt to find hers. She slid down his body, peppering kisses all over his chest, the movement so sensual he had to stop himself from coming right here and there.

Finally, he felt himself slide inside of her, so suddenly he let out a loud shout of appreciation. She felt wonderful, her warmth ensnaring him, trapping him with an iron-grip. Unaccustomed to the position, she took a moment to settle, moving over him only slowly, at first, until she discovered a rhythm that suited her.

She was a vision. Biting her lips to keep quiet, eyes closed and head thrown back as she quickened her pace. Feeling his own orgasm approaching, Benedict met her thrust for thrust, his hands sliding up her body to settle on her breasts. The feeling alone was enough to send him on the brink of the precipice, and he was undone when she moaned his name, whimpering as his fingers found her bud. He came, repeating her name as she helped him on, her hips dancing a wild dance of her own rendition, caressing his neck as she collapsed on top of him.

They laid there quietly, trying to catch their breath. Sophie, only just recuperating from her own bliss, pressed light kisses along his jaw, smiling when she felt his arms snake around her, dragging the bedsheets to cover them up. She refused to move, perfectly happy to remain where she was. This was the most intimate way she could feel him, be one with him. She’d dreamt of that for far too long to relinquish him just yet.

“I thought you must have been a dream,” he whispered, his fingers drawing lazy circles on her back.

There was a hitch in his voice that she couldn’t quite place. As if, he’d truly thought that she’d gone and left him.

“I thought I had somehow lost myself to you _again_ , before I remembered that I had every right to do so.”

“One would say _duty_. But I like ‘right’ better. It’s so much more beautiful if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

She looked up at him, smiling. His lopsided smile cut adorable dimples in his cheeks, making his blue eyes appear endearingly boyish. Except that there was nothing boyish about Benedict Bridgerton. He was a man, through and through, _her_ man.

“Well, you do have _some_ skills with your hands, Mr. Bridgerton, as you no doubt are well aware of.”

She nodded towards his drawing book, left forgotten on the desk. He gave a punishing sway of his hips.

“I prefer it when you call me Benedict.”

Her answering motion made him swallow his words, biting his lips. She was a merciless tease. She bent down to kiss him fully on the lips, weaving her fingers through his hair as she dragged him up into a sitting position. He felt her writhe against him, adjusting, until she sighed with relief when he entered her, moving achingly slow.

“It’s a beautiful name,” she murmured, lovingly biting his earlobe.

_Oh, how he loved her._

* * *

**A/N** _: These were the two chapters I had already written in one of my *moments* so now you guys will have to wait for inspiration to strike again._


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